Purgatorio
by LadyTuesday
Summary: The "missing" scenes that weave together the Purgatory flashbacks, exploring the seismic change in the Dean/Cas relationship that grew from their time in Purgatory, interpreted through the terraces of Purgatory from Dante's Divine Comedy. Told from the PoV of Dean, Castiel, and Benny. Will eventually be the first of a trilogy that will explore Inferno (Hell) and Paradiso (Heaven).


A/N – This is my first full-length, non-one-shot fic in the SPN world … hurray! This work was written for the Dean/Cas Big Bang (DCBB) on livejournal. I highly recommend that you putter over to their page to check out other amazing stories from the DCBB. :) Also, if you like what you see here, please go read and review (wink wink, nudge nudge) my one-shots. I'll try to keep the A/N short, but there are a few things you should know about this fic:

- All pre-chapter/section quotes are from "Purgatorio", the second portion of the epic poem The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri. In case you're interested (and/or are a huge nerd like me), it's the Mandelbaum translation. Link is in my profile.

- The story is basically meant to be the "missing" scenes in between the Purgatory flashbacks (with the obvious literary parallels). As such, I don't include much of the ACTUAL Purgatory flashbacks simply because … well … you've seen it already. My interest is in the subtext –IMHO, there's a huge change in dynamic between Dean and Cas during/after Purgatory – and what happened "off screen". And remember, you can't spell "subtext" without "butt sex". Which brings me to my next point:

- This is technically a Destiel fic, but it's a slower burn; you won't see the physicality until later in the fic. That being said, it's rated M/Explicit for a reason. There will be harsh language and violence throughout, and if you don't like slash, be forewarned: there's some decently hard-core smut in the last couple of chapters.

- There are a few things that will occur here that are not exactly canon: a) Castiel's handprint on Dean's shoulder – it disappears after 5.22 Swan Song, but I have reintroduced it for my own nefarious purposes; b) Castiel's "angel mojo" in Purgatory – he does have some mojo, as he banishes at least one creature, but he's also seen fighting hand-to-hand; since his mojo is severely weakened when he returns to Earth, I have made my own inferences. Hopefully neither of these will "stick in your craw," as Benny would say.

- This fic is complete in 9 chapters: a prologue, one chapter for each of the seven terraces of Purgatory as paralleled from Dante, and an epilogue. I will update once a week on Supernatural Tuesdays until complete. Since the prologue isn't that long, I won't keep you in suspense for an entire week and will post chapter one tomorrow. :)

Also, an amazing facet of the DCBB is that you get artists who volunteer to illustrate your work! I'm flattered and humbled that the wonderful and talented Jackie (thesoufflegirl on lj, consultingsoufflegirl on AO3, and crowleybby tumblr) volunteered to do the art for this story. Art will be included here, but please also visit her page(s) and show your appreciation for her work because I'm so grateful that she volunteered to share her talent with me!

Yup. That's what passes as "keeping it short" from me. Please remember: reviews are love.

Best,  
Lady Tuesday

_**The Division of the Sinners: The Excommunicate** _

As he stopped in the elongated shadow of a towering tree to take his ease for a moment, Castiel couldn't help but think that if the whole situation wasn't so rife with personal tragedy, he might find it amusingly absurd: an angel of the Lord charged with silently watching humanity chosen to raise a man from Hell ends up being swept into Purgatory after decimating both Heaven and Earth. Before any of this had begun, before this battered vessel had housed him, Castiel had believed that merely the suggestion of doubt was blasphemous enough to risk a fall. And yet, here he was, counting his initial rebellion from the Host's planned apocalypse as the _least_ severe of his transgressions. Perhaps it wasn't "funny", exactly, but it certainly was absurd. Almost farcical.

He swiped his filthy hands against his even filthier clothes, long since having let go of the disdain for the thick layer of grime that had coated him since he arrived here. Dirt and blood and a sticky film of black ooze splotched across Castiel's bedraggled coat and hospital scrubs, a patchwork story of the creatures who had died by his hands since touching down in this wretched place. Although he technically didn't need to sleep, the few quiet hours that he could steal while the night gloom hung in the sky gave him some respite. He dreaded those minutes, though, knowing that the absence of combat would leave him receptive to the persistent hum of Dean's voice in the back of his head.

A most unwelcome throb of anguish wrenched at his heart as Castiel heard it in the back of his mind: an unrelenting repetition of his name coupled with progressively more fervent promises of rescue and support, night after night. Even after all of the faults and failings Dean had been subjected to on the part of his angelic friend – even after the angel had abandoned him in a pitch black world of fiends – the hunter's prayers to Castiel weren't the demands for help and answers that the angel expected, that the prayers should have been. They were appeals for his whereabouts and frantic promises that the hunter would save him. Save him. As if Dean owed him redemption. As if he could even be redeemed. Castiel clenched his eyes shut against the drone of Dean's prayers but it did no good.

During daylight, under the alternating strains of unyielding combat and fevered flight from his pursuers, Castiel could block out the presence of Dean's mind within his, the prayers that threaded through his consciousness. The tiny shard of his Grace that resided within his mark on Dean's shoulder picked the man out to Castiel's awareness, like a silver thread within a blanket of midnight, far away in the reaches of the immeasurable void that was Purgatory. The conscious sensation of Dean's connection to his Grace was what allowed the man to call him so easily as well as what allowed Castiel to travel to him with such precision when Dean was in need. These flashes of rest and silence when the angel hid within the dismal bramble of undergrowth made the connection seem like a curse, however, as the stillness in his mind made it nearly impossible to shut his friend out. The scratchy recitations of Dean's pleas agonized him, tearing at him as he clutched at his vessel's gritty hair. The few times that the prayers had given way to weeping, Castiel had all but clawed out his eyes in misery. He couldn't imagine a worse Hell for himself than knowing that Dean was in need, in peril, in _pain_, and he could do nothing to prevent it or even assuage it.

But he deserved this hell. Not just because of what he'd done on Earth, what he'd done in Heaven, but because of what he'd done to Dean. Castiel had brought every single pinprick of suffering upon himself with his rashness, his arrogance, his ruthless, pitiless cruelty and then his horrid cowardice. As Dean wore Castiel's rough name smooth against his tongue with his nightly prayers, the angel reminded himself of every instant of hurt that he'd caused his friend – his first actual friend and the man who taught him the true meanings of loyalty and family, of_ feelings_ in and of themselves – if only to grind into his borrowed bones the penance owed. Hundreds of angels dead in his wake, countless humans slaughtered at his heels … Castiel remembered every face, every feather, every spatter of blood as Dean Winchester invoked his name and declaimed endlessly of his loyalty to his angel friend, his perseverance in the fight to find him, save him. This was the forfeit, the price of Castiel's fall. It was steep, but he would shoulder what was due even if it destroyed him. Not just because he owed it to Heaven or Earth, but because the man that prayed to him out there in the dark deserved an angel that justified his relentless devotion.

The only glimmer of hope that Castiel allowed himself was the ardent faith that in sacrificing himself, he could protect Dean. Dean's name was on Castiel's lips as he rose from behind the bushes, squaring his shoulders to take on the growling creature that had come upon him in the dark. If keeping himself away from Dean gave his friend even the tiniest sliver of a chance to evade these monsters and perhaps even death itself, then he would unreservedly draw to his chest every abomination that Purgatory could spew forth and let the beasts feed on him for as long as it took to save Dean Winchester.

**_The Division of the Sinners: The Late Repentant_ **

Dean certainly didn't miss the complete absurdity of the situation. Hell, if it had been any other poor sap's shitty excuse for reality that he was staring down the barrel of, he might have even found it kind of funny. A fucked up, Tarantino movie sort of funny. A man who had been to both Heaven _and_ Hell on his damn knees in freaking _Purgatory_ praying his heart out to an ex-soldier, ex-God-substitute, possibly-still-batshit-crazy renegade angel … well, even Dean Winchester would find that shit hilarious if he weren't living it. And even though Dean usually thought that praying was about as useful as tits on a turtle, it was the image of Cas out there somewhere, terrified and crazy and alone, that kept Dean on his knees every night with his forehead pressed against his trembling hands as he whispered into the unquiet dark in a voice made hoarse by exertion and withdrawal.

That particular part of this crap storm actually made his lips quirk up just a bit in self-depreciating humor as he broke his litany of prayer to shake out the tremors in his hands. During the day, constant combat, fear, and adrenaline kept his body running but when the endless nights descended with no warning, darkness slamming down on them like a curtain of nothingness, his limbs started to shake, his stomach heaved, and his head screamed. It seemed a weirdly appropriate demise for someone like Dean: he was just fine with the infinite hack-and-slash killing sprees that were the make-up of Purgatory, but when that was wiped away his whole body buckled for lack of a good stiff drink. If it wasn't him dealing with this shit-heap of a situation, he definitely would have found it funny.

Dean licked his cracking lips and reapplied himself to his pleas in the dark.

"Cas," Dean rasped out, "Cas, buddy, I know you can hear me. I just want you to know that I'm coming for you. I'm going to find you, man, I promise. I'm not going to leave you alone, Cas…"

His voice cracked for a moment, thinking of Cas on his own, frantically fighting off the hordes of monsters that Dean could just barely handle himself. With a shock of cold, slick terror, he imagined Castiel lying on the ground, bleeding out. Or, worse yet, the angel scrambling, mauled and broken, away from a creature that laughed as his blood dripped from its jaws. Screaming for help. Screaming for Dean. A noisy sob tore itself from Dean's throat before he capped it; who the hell knew what was out there in the dark, and he couldn't afford to cry like a bitch and bring on anything that would think him easy meat.

Sliding down to lay at the foot of the tree where he'd been praying, Dean removed his jacket and pulled it over himself like a blanket, a parody of sleep. After a few long moments of forcibly measured breaths, Dean continued whispering his vow to Castiel, hoping with every atom of his being that the angel could hear him.

"Cas," he started again.

When his mind flashed again to increasingly gory versions of Cas's death or savaging at the hands of the things that stalked out there in the dark, Dean just repeated his name over and over again, letting the soothing sounds of the angel's name on his tongue lull him into the oblivion of sleep.


End file.
